"R" is for Ricochet by Sue Grafton Page A

the vernacular. Better not to let her venture too far down that path. I glanced over at her. “If you don’t mind my asking, have you been in trouble before?”
    She turned to look out the passenger-side window. “Depends on your point of reference. I went through drug rehab twice. I did six months in county jail on a bad-check charge. By the time I got out, my finances were in the shitter so I declared bankruptcy. Here’s the weird part. Once I filed? I got a ton of credit card offers in the mail and all of them were preapproved. How could I resist? Of course, I ran those up, too. Thirty thousand bucks’ worth before the gates clanged shut.”
    â€œThirty thousand for what?”
    â€œOh, you know. The usual. Gambling, drugs. I blew a bunch at the track and then went to Reno where I played the slots. I sat in on some high-stakes poker, but the cards were running cold. Not that I’d quit because of that. I figured I could only lose so many times before the game turned around and started working my way. Unfortunately, I never reached that point. Next thing you know, I was broke and living on the streets. That was 1982. Pop moved me into his house and then he cleaned up my debts. What about your vices? You must have one. ”
    â€œI drink wine and the occasional martini. I used to smoke cigarettes, but then I gave that up.”
    â€œHey, me, too. I quit a year ago. Talk about tough.”
    â€œThe worst, ” I said. “What made you quit?”
    â€œJust to prove I could,” she said. “What about other stuff? You ever do coke?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œLudes, Vicodan, Percocet?”
    I turned and stared at her.
    â€œI’m just asking, ” she said.
    â€œI smoked dope in high school, but then I straightened up my act.”
    She flopped her head to one side and said, “Snore.”
    I laughed. “Why snore?”
    â€œYou live like a nun. Where’s the friggin’ joy?”
    â€œI have joy. I have a lot of joy.”
    â€œOh, don’t be so defensive. I wasn’t judging you.”
    â€œYes, you were.”
    â€œWell, okay, maybe a little bit. I’m mostly curious.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œHow you make it in this world if you give up living on the edge.”
    â€œMaybe you’ll find out.”
    â€œI wouldn’t bet on that, but one can always hope.”
    Â 
    As we approached Santa Teresa, a drifting fog had curled across the landscape, wispy and pale. I drove along the beach, palms standing out darkly against the soft white of the Pacific. Reba’d been staring at the ocean since it came into view south of Perdido. As we passed the Perdido Avenue off-ramp, she turned her head, watching it recede into the mist. “You ever hear of the Double Down?”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œPerdido’s only poker parlor—scene of my downfall. Had some great times there, but that’s over and done with. Or so I hope.”
    The highway angled inland and she watched the ebb and flow of citrus groves on either side of the road. Houses and businesses began to accumulate until the town itself appeared—two-and three-story white stucco buildings with red tile roofs, palm trees, evergreens, the architecture defined by the Spanish influence.
    â€œWhat’d you miss most?” I asked.
    â€œMy cat. Long-haired orange tabby I’ve had since he was six weeks old. He looked like a little powder puff. He’s seventeen now and a great old guy.”
    As I took the Milagro off-ramp, I glanced at my watch. It was 12:36. “Are you hungry? We have time for lunch if you want to eat before you meet your PO.”
    â€œThat’d be great. I’ve been hungry since we hit the road.”
    â€œYou should have spoken up. You have a preference?”
    â€œMcDonald’s. I’d kill for a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    Over lunch, I said,